


Rebuilding

by All_Our_Sweetest_Hours



Series: The Wolves Will Come Again [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:35:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29791989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_Our_Sweetest_Hours/pseuds/All_Our_Sweetest_Hours
Summary: When everything you know is reduced to rubble, all you can do is make of the scraps what you can and all Sansa can hope for is to capture a shade of what it was...or what it could have been.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: The Wolves Will Come Again [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/507258
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	Rebuilding

**Author's Note:**

> \- Canon Divergence from Season Six  
> \- I usually get asked in the comments if I'm okay with my stories being translated into other languages. That's absolutely fine as long as it is not being done so for profit and all relevant copyrights/credits are upheld. I'd also appreciate a comment letting me know where so I can check it out.  
> \- Once this series is complete, I'm probably going to give it a last edit to pick up on any continuity errors (especially with Power) so if you do notice any mistakes in the timelines, contradictions or errors, please feel free to point them out.

There is a saying in the North that nothing sharpens steel like ice.

It had confused Sansa as a child with her young mind interpreting it literally. She had spent a shameful amount of years wondering just how ice could be sturdy enough to sharpen a blade.

When she had finally thought to ask her father, he had laughed and called her his joy. “It has a deeper meaning,” he had told her. “It means that the moments where we struggle the most are the moments that make us stronger. When winter comes we have only two choices; we perish or we survive it.”

Sansa, spoiled and sheltered as she was, had thought it a noble sentiment not realising that she would one day live it.

Winter is coming; another Northern motto and the words of her own house...and when Winter comes to the North, it sets in quickly.

“Hold your nerve,” Tormund tells her, as she stares down one of Ramsay’s hounds. Sansa had ignored good advice to have them killed, unable to execute the beasts that had also suffered under Bolton’s hand before eventually delivering her justice.

They are ruined, her houndsmen had told her; they have a taste for flesh so they cannot be tamed.

Tormund was the only one who had believed otherwise, telling Jon that they need not be tamed, only their wildness respected. Dogs, he had said, are like wolves. They do not like to fight. They kill only for food and in defence of a threat but when they find their pack, they are as loyal as any creature can be--- and though Jon had yet to be convinced that their savageness can be unlearned, Tormund had been keeping them well and Sansa had seen how they obey his commands.

“You can’t show your fear,” Tormund says as he moves her hand under the snout of the biggest hound. Sansa’s hands are blood stained from the butchered hare she nervously holds out.

Tormund holds out his own bloody hand and the beast just licks at him and whimpers like a pup. “They’re learning not to bite.”

“Ramsay used to feed them by his own hand, and then they tore his face off” she says, the dead man’s name losing power over her each time she uses it. Though he has not disappeared, he becomes more of a memory each day. She sometimes wants to take a sword to the neck of his savage dogs which were once used to torment her, snapping at her face to the beat of a madman’s laughter but she knows that it won’t help. These dogs helped give her justice—as bloody and barbaric as it was. She owes them a chance at least.

“Aye, but he also starved and beat them. Any dog beaten will turn one day. They only stay loyal to those who have earned it.”

She remembers words Baelish once told her; of how a beast that is pampered and loved will be devoted and loyal for life. She thinks of Ghost, who would probably never flash a fang at Jon even if he came at him with a blade. She thinks of her sweet Lady who adored her despite Sansa being a terrible brat. She didn’t even have to be there at Rickon’s capture to know that Shaggydog would have fought to protect him until his last dying breath.

“You’re lost in thought, little one.” Tormund says, his voice soft and low. “Haunted by your ghosts?”

Sansa smiles softly. “The Ironborn have a saying; what is dead may never die. I find that to be true sometimes.”

“You people have some funny sayings,” he replies and Sansa dare not tell him the true meaning of the phrase.

He guides her hand to the hound’s snout again, until bloody meat touches its lips. The hound does not move.

“We Freefolk also have a saying; what is dead can never hurt you. When you’re ready, tell him to bite.”

“Bite,” Sansa says, after a breath and the hound snaps the meat from her fingers with enough speed and grace that she can only marvel that it did not catch her.

See?” Tormund says. “Dogs do not bite for fun, only for food and fear.”

They have been taming the dogs together for almost three months now and Sansa has come to enjoy the company of a man she once thought a disheveled and frightening brute. She has shared some of her own confessions with Tormund, told him things that only a man who has seen the other brutality of men can understand. There are things that she doesn’t want Jon to know—not because she doesn’t trust him but because he doesn’t deserve to know the intricacies of the horrors can be visited upon a woman alone in the world. Sansa wishes not to know herself, wishes that the details of her traumas were a secret that could be kept from her.

Neither of them address the lie in Tormund’s words about there being no reason to fear the dead. Both know that they hide in their keep, preparing for the day when dead men come knocking at their gates. That is not why he speaks such words and Sansa understands the message behind them.

The next hound she feeds herself.

......

Council does not break until it is already dark and she decides on a walk before bed, but only after Jon has promised that he will not fold away into sadness if she lets him alone for a moment.

Though it has been two moons since he came to her chamber and wept his confession into her shoulder, his mood is still turned and sombre. Lord Reed’s confession had only served to stall their journey towards building the relationship that was so abysmally absent from their childhood, most often due to the fact that Jon had taken to sequestering himself away in his office or chambers once his duties are done with and Sansa’s gentle nagging was having little effect to change it.

“It is unhealthy to be so cooped up, Jon. Truly it is. I shall allow it for now, considering the circumstances but eventually, I will have to insist that you at least make some effort to tear yourself away from your dark and hidden corners.”

“Sansa,” he starts, already rubbing his brow between finger and thumb—but Sansa does not wish to fight tonight.

“Alright. I shall take Ghost as a companion then,” she announces, biting her tongue as Jon merely mutters his assent and returns to his melancholy reflections.

......

Ghost leads her through the Godswood, showing off his hunting prowess as he stalks night creatures and shadows.

“A fine night it is, my Lady.”

It is a very fine night. The air may be cold but it is dry. The night is fine enough that Sansa finds herself unbothered by Petyr’s presence, even if she does still wonder why he lingers at Winterfell. Surely his interests are better served at the Vale.

“Yes, it is, Lord Baelish,” she says.

“Please, Sansa. There is no need for such formal address, not between you and I. We have so much history together.”

History that she would sooner forget but perhaps she is being too hard on him. While his look during Jon’s coronation had been unsettling, he has yet to make a move against them. Maybe she should be a little kinder. She does owe both Jon’s life and the victory of the Northern Army to him after all but Petyr is not the only one with lessons learned from their shared history. She has made her hostility known after he sold her off to the Boltons and a shift into sweet words will make him distrustful.

“I have been meaning to speak to you alone...” he says pointedly, in a manner that draws unfortunate comparisons to being lectured by her parents as a child. She finds him incredibly irksome.

He smiles smugly after a pause. “...but it has become increasingly difficult to tear you away from your brother.”

If she felt more comfortable with Petyr, she would open her mouth to complain that his keen eye for detail must be blinkered for it has been very difficult to tear Jon away from his quarters but she doesn’t say a word of it for she knows it better to let Baelish believe she and Jon are closer than they truly are.

“I have been helping him with the accounts.” She replies, plainly, though her mind is already worrying over the possibility that she may be giving him too much information. Petyr can work wonders with things that others consider small.

“Really? I didn’t know you had an inclination towards bookkeeping.”

“I didn’t either,” she admits. “But I find it surprisingly enjoyable. Working out numbers and provisions keeps my mind off other things.”

He hums in answer and she knows that he finds her attempts to make herself useful during the restructure of her own home as little more than a silly pastime to keep her flighty mind occupied.

His dismissal annoys her. To give into her pettiness would have her reeling off a well detailed account of Winterfell’s books yet even pettiness requires more effort than she is willing to give him---and she knows that it is information he will have already have made a point to gather.

It does not have to be spoken aloud between them that the North is not large or strong enough to stand against the Vale yet and Jon, as much as she admires him for many things, is far too honest to fare well against a man such as Littlefinger.

“My apologies,” she says. She survived Kings Landing by being a proper lady, and while it served as no protection against Ramsay, she knows Littlefinger enough that she can armour herself with formalities long beaten out of her by the hands of brutes. “I have been very busy trying to support the King as he stabilises the North.”

Petyr’s smile does not reach his eyes. “Yes, you have done very well. The feast you prepared was an astounding success. I hope the _King_ appreciates how lucky he is to have your talents at his disposal.”

She is not surprised that Petyr has managed to pick up on signs of discontent between her and Jon or that he appears to know the cause of them. Though if Petyr means to turn such petty slights into poisoned wounds, he is already too late because it is this moment where Sansa realises that, for once, Petyr is a step behind her.

It has been two moons since Jon wept his secret into her shoulder and Sansa made the choice to trust him. Sansa knows that she and Jon have a long road to travel before they can build kinship upon a foundation that was already so weak. However, Petyr has yet to realise that she and Jon are on the same path, regardless.

The more spiteful arrows that are aimed at him, the more Sansa comes to appreciate that Jon is not one for false words or childish petting. He has his own ways; of showing concern, humour, affection--- and where he still fails, he promises to do better. In the moments when he deigns to leave his quarters and despite his heavy melancholy, he has taken to complimenting her stitches and listening to her as she shares gossip overheard by her ladies even though he finds both activities dull---and the moments when he promises that he will keep her safe more than make up for the times when his eyes glaze over as she speaks of shallow things.

Petyr is still weaving his web and Sansa listens attentively, mentally snipping each thread as he spins it. He pledges himself to her, his heart, his body, his soul. He offers her his home and his army; though neither is truly his to give. He tries to charm her with silken words that once would have tangled her up while she waited and permitted herself to be devoured as long as she thought she was safe. He offers his hand and his undying love.

But his words do not take. Sansa has become stronger each day. The Starks take their strength from winter, for ice surely sharpens steel, and here they have steel and ice in abundance.

“I cannot,” she tells him. “I can’t bring myself to become another man’s wife again. Not even yours,” she adds to sweeten him though she knows now that he is not naturally inclined towards pity. “A sad maid, I might be but I want to remain at Winterfell for the rest of my days.”

“That is a shame, my dear. Hopefully one day, when your wounds are less fresh and your heart has healed some, you might find a space in it for me.”

His touch upon her cheek is placating, as though he is soothing a silly child who doesn’t realise that her assertions are an illusion. She despises him then for his arrogance, for thinking he will still have her after she has refused him but she knows he will not push her in this moment. He is not a man to use force if he can help it. He prefers people to submit to him of their own accord. It makes them less worrisome, he once told her. For there is nothing quicker to turn than a cornered beast, and nothing more loyal than one who has been well fed and doted upon.

She remembers feeding the hounds that morning and hears Tormund’s voice in her ear. She spares Petyr a disdainful glance when she knows he is not looking.

_Bite_ , she thinks.

......

Only a day passes before Sansa realises that she has miscalculated Petyr’s level of patience. She is also reminded never to underestimate his ability to expose a nerve and press on it.

The news she hears has her rushing off to Jon’s chambers in a fit of rage with dying insecurities making their last attempt at breathing. She knows that she should know better because Jon has promised to keep her safe, even without her admitting the fear that torments her.

Her body trembles with nerves and fury as Jon makes a show of shaking snow from his boots and hair before stoking the fire; an act that he claims to do for her comfort but Sansa does not care about the fire at present. Her own nerves are aflame; worry choking her like thick, black smoke.

“What did he say?” She asks through gritted teeth, each word drawn and constrained with anger and fright that threatens to explode from her.

Jon’s shoulder rumbles in a chuckle, his voice full of mirth. “Just pretty words of how he was going to ensure you the longest, happiest life a woman could know.”

That he finds it amusing provokes her fury towards him.

“I could smack you right now, Jon Snow,” she shouts.

“Me?” he asks, turning in his seat. It would be a funny sight to see a King so dumb struck before her if she wasn’t so angry. “What did I do?”

“The way you laugh at my misery is appalling!”

“I didn’t laugh,” Jon protests. “I told him he couldn’t have you.”

Sansa’s snarling little laugh is inelegant but how is she to be elegant when he tests her patience so?

“I am not yours to give away, and I bet you’ve already considered it; if not with Petyr then with some other poncy Lord!”

Jon is quiet for a moment and she knows that he is trying to choose his words carefully even if she can’t quite appreciate his effort at this moment. “No, I did not, and that’s not what I said, Sansa. Don’t put words in my mouth. I only told him that you would not be wed to anybody unless you desired it and asked for it yourself.”

She stares at him, face taut, still unable to concede despite the mortification of attacking him without justification. It mortifies her more that she can’t let it go. She knows she is being unfair but Jon is the only one before her right now and the only one whom she can talk to in such a free manner. He is the only man she trusts to not harm her for it.

She grits her teeth. “Well, why didn’t you just say that instead of talking in riddles?” Jon shakes his head and turns his back on her and she knows that it is an invite for her to leave his very presence this moment but shame defeats her anger and she drops into the chair beside him, all the fight gone from her body. He will ignore her if she tries to engage him now as he often does when she riles him up too much, but she has nobody else to talk of such things with; not so honestly at least.

“I’m infuriated,” she admits though by the set of Jon’s shoulders and his gaze on the fire, she thinks she might have driven him past caring. Never mind. If he doesn’t wish to talk with her she will happily talk at him if only to get this weight off her chest.

“How dare he ask you for my hand after I refused him? I tried to be kind, you know, but I was a fool for trying. He has no right to make claims on me. If anything, he owes me! His loaning of the Vale should be considered reparation for his offences against me!”

Jon throws a piece of wood at the fire and it bounces off the back stone with the force. Whatever she says, she will not be able to temper him tonight and she knows that she has nobody to blame for it but herself.

She can be an absolute demon sometimes.

Ghost comes to her and rests his head in her lap. She leans down until she can ruffle his fur with her nose, fingers already twisting gently in the scruff of his neck. Many say that wolves are beasts with no true feeling or intelligence but if that is true, then why does Ghost come to her so sweetly to lick the tears from her face? Why does a beast allow her to brush out his fur and sing silly old songs to him when he would much rather be running and hunting instead?

Ghost keeps all of her secrets.

She suddenly feels defeated and old. She is an old maid at eight and ten. Married; divorced and widowed. Over half her family are dead and the rest, but one, is lost to her.

And that one who remains she pushes away and provokes him to anger outside of his character. She could be blessed with a husband and a handful of babes by now but all she has are nightmares and scars.

She lifts up her sleeve to above the wrist, the one furthest away from Jon’s view. Her own body saddens her; patchwork skin with scars that turn whiter with each day but will never disappear. _You’ll always carry a part of you with me_ , Ramsay had promised her but he needn’t have bothered with such useless words. His mark is etched upon her, visible and ugly for the whole world to see.

If she were to lift her shift up to her stomach, she would find scars done by her own hand the very night that Winterfell was recaptured and she returned home. She had picked a piece of jagged glass from the floor and stowed it in her sleeve until she was alone. It had hurt but she hadn’t stopped until all that was left were crisscross scars and the terrible words underneath them had been buried for evermore.

Tears are not as permanent as scars though even if Sansa sometimes believes she will spend the rest of her life crying. She wipes hers away with the back of her sleeve before Jon can see, but Ghost will not keep her secrets tonight. He draws Jon’s attention with his whining and nudging snout at Sansa’s face, his flat tongue swiping salt from her cheeks.

Jon doesn’t speak, doesn’t turn his gaze from the fire, but he reaches over and tangles his fingers in Sansa’s hair, resting the weight of his palm against the back of her head while she brings her knees up to her chest and sets her head upon them to hide the shame that will not stop pouring out of her. She is full of it; shame, bile and bitterness. Full of hate and anger too. Her ugliest scars are worn inwards and maybe that is a small mercy granted by the gods because if anybody could see such darkness, they would surely leave her outside in the snow to die.

Jon rises and unseats her before taking her place and bringing her down until she is settled beside him, knees curled against his lap His hand warms her spine in motions intended to soothe. He holds her like a child and she settles into him like one; curled up and soaking up soft words and whispers that don’t come easy to him.

“Hush, Sansa,” he whispers. “You don’t ever have to worry. You’re not going anywhere, I promise. I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you. I know it was Baelish who riled you," he tells her a while after her tears have dried. They are still seated together, watching the fire and each entertaining their own thoughts.

He has removed his fur cloak and wrapped it around them to fight off the cold that the night brings with it. Sansa’s arm is around his shoulders, her head resting wearily in the crook of his neck. It feels too heavy for her shoulders, too heavy to move.

“You had every right,” she admits. Her own behaviour brings her shame now that her mind and heart are clear. “I was being awful to you, as I so often am.”

She feels the rumble of his chest as he laughs softly. “Only on occasion.”

Her own laugh is a murmur against his skin. She is too tired to do anything else. The warmth and weight of him is as much a comfort as the heat of the fire and the soft light which lulls her into a slumber.

“You’ve been afraid that I would marry you off?” Jon asks, softly.

Once the words are spoken aloud, and from his mouth no less, Sansa realises how incredibly silly and small her fears seem.

“Not that you break your promises but what if...?”

He waits a moment for her to find the words and when he realises that she can’t, he tips his head until she has no choice but to look at him directly.

‘There is no ‘what if’ about it, Sansa. Whatever roles we have to play out there, I am not _your_ king and I don’t lay any claim to you. Whatever the cost, your choices are your own. I don’t want you upsetting yourself worrying about things that will never happen.”

She swallows the rest of her tears and nods. “I’m sorry.”

Jon sighs deeply and rests his cheek against her hair. “There’s no need to be sorry. Just don’t sit on your worries. Tell me next time.” They lapse into quietness and if Sansa listens closely enough, she might hear the last dying wail of a fear cast out where it can do no more harm.

Jon starts up some mundane chatter; a story told in an attempt tease her towards plainer feelings but she doesn’t hear the end of it. Sleep takes her quickly and when she wakes, she is in her own bed with Ghost warming her feet.

......

The climb to rebuild Winterfell keeps steady pace under Jon’s rule and Sansa finds herself suddenly free to indulge her own interests.

“I’ve instructed my attendants to make clothing out of the Bolton furs for the children in the villages. We must remember that Winterfell is not the only place to have faced the devastation of a Bolton rulership. ” Sansa tells Jon while they are going over the accounts and provisions.

She has found an unlikely pleasure in helping him with bookkeeping, for while Catelyn Stark had insisted on both her daughters being taught how to run their own households and keep their own books, accounting had never held a particular interest to Sansa as a child.

As an adult however, she finds working out numbers and provisions offers her little room for intrusive memories that linger as stubbornly as the last summer flower. She wishes they were only as yielding when it came to perishing.

“You have a talent for it,” Jon says. “Far more than I do.”

“I enjoy it more than you do,” Sansa says, laughing.

Jon is a soldier at heart; more content in the training yard with a sword in his hand. When Sansa had made it clear that she was not only happy to help but found it fulfilling, Jon had eagerly cleared out a space for her in his own office.

They had settled quietly into a comfortable routine, going about their daily tasks and keeping Winterfell and preparations for the Winter as their focus. It is only during the night, when Jon takes advantage of the warmth of Sansa’s rooms (which used to be her dear Mother’s) and they sit by the fire and speak of things which they do not dare speak of during the day.

Sansa has begun a habit of searching the room for spies even before Jon comes, because the longer she keeps Littlefinger at arms length, the sneakier and more daring he will become.

It has been almost three moons now since Lord Reed delivered his news and Jon is still so troubled by it. His visits to her room have led to long talks before the fire; words spilling from his mouth that he doesn’t entrust with anybody else. He doesn’t know who he is anymore, who he ever was, he says, and he speaks of her Father with such anger and sadness and gratitude for the man who tarnished his own honour to protect him.

“I am not worth all of this” he confesses

“You were to Father and you are to me,” is all Sansa can think of to say.

Little by little, she thinks he begins to believe it.

......

Sansa has not lived long enough to see a true Northern winter.

Another month passes before they call the council to meet and tell them of Howland Reed’s news.

“We must be cautious,” Ser Davos tells them.

They are convened in the library, doors barred under guise of holding a war council. The people in the room are few and only the most trusted; Davos, Brienne, Lady Mormont and her advisors, and Tormund. Two full moons have passed since Lord Reed delivered his news and ravens have already been passed between themselves and Theon Greyjoy, who sails with the Ironborn as part of the Daenerys Targaryen’s fleet.

Ser Davos may be newly fashioned a noble, raised up from humble beginnings, but Jon has named him his King’s Hand and his pragmatic advice so far has proven the honour well earned.

“The North has only recently returned their loyalties to your family. If what Lord Reed says is true, then it may unsettle their faith in his Grace. There is still no love in the North for Targaryens.”

Jon is brooding, lost in thought. His chin is rested upon clasped hands in the same manner father used to affect when he was most pensive and troubled. Sansa wonders when exactly she became so tuned into his feelings.

“He is still a Stark on his mother’s side,” Lady Mormont speaks. The young bear, named for Jon’s own mother. How fitting for her to speak up for him.

Davos gestures to her uncertainly. Sansa knows that he finds her haughty and judgemental towards him, and perhaps at first it was based in envy that Jon accepted his word so easily above her own, but now she tries to be far more careful in her manner towards him.

“We must also consider Lady Sansa’s claim,” He says.

“Not important,” Sansa replies. “I have no wish to stake it.”

“You might not, my Lady,” Davos says carefully. “But the Lords may favour raising Ned Stark’s trueborn daughter over his nephew born to a Southern prince---a nephew whose parentage is still under question.”

Each word strikes at Jon like a sword’s blow and she reminds herself to speak to him later, to offer her own disregards to whatever Davos says that he may fear true.

“Forget my own claim, I won’t chase it. If they try to raise me up they will fail. How do we protect Jon’s claim?” 

She might hate herself a little for the surprise in some of their faces. What she has become is reflected back in their stares, but she cannot linger on the past, she can only move forward.

“What about her—Daenerys—what says she?” Jon asks, a rasp in his throat that Sansa does not find pleasing. She can’t help but wonder if Jon hears of her and dreams of family who can be kinder to him and sweeter than she is, for though she tries, there are still times when Sansa’s mood overtakes her.

“We have no official correspondence from her as of yet. Her fleet set sail again the week gone by so will be out of our reach for some time yet, but Theon Greyjoy has said in his last letter that she is aware of the rumours. She may offer her hand, Your Grace,” Ser Davos says to the discomfort of the room. “Targaryens have been known to wed brother to sister and nephew to aunt before.”

“And you people call us barbarians,” Tormund mutters. Sansa has come to like his blunt speak. He has escorted her on walks through the Godswood at time when Jon is in meetings or training and Sansa has learned to appreciate the value of a primal intelligence that she once thought a sign of a thick-headed savage. Tormund is from the harshest of lands; a place where women have to be strong or fall at the mercy of men. He offers wisdoms about her traumas that very few would even think of.

“She can offer all she likes,” Jon says bitterly. “And she can keep her hand.”

......

They convene again, many times throughout the week, their council still small and meetings still secret. It is all they ever seem to do lately, hashing out plans and endless discussions about if the rumours are true at all and if they are, what can be done about it.

Marriage is, as ever, suggested as the strongest way to build an alliance and strengthen the North but the list of viable candidates is short and Sansa knows Jon well enough to see how he balks at the idea of wedding for politics.

She tries to imagine him asking for the hand of a noble lady, casting him as the charming confessor using the same honeyed words that she has heard from Petyr. She finds it wholly amusing.

Jon, in fact, would likely make a fool of himself. He would stutter and stumble, fidget with his sword handle until he got himself into a state and stormed off, leaving his potential bride wondering what she had done to make him so angry with her. Once, Sansa would have thought it utterly shameful behaviour but now she finds it oddly endearing.

She wonders if she had perhaps been caught laughing out loud when she comes out of her daydreaming to find Ser Davos’s eyes on her again. The way he stares at her so during these discussions, she sarcastically wonders if he might be planning to petition her himself but perhaps she is being too harsh. As Jon’s Hand, he has a duty to consider anything which may prove to an obstacle to the King’s reign and Sansa is not too proud to see that she might be considered such.

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” Ser Davos starts breaking the needless chatter amongst the table. “Forgive me for what I am about to suggest but I feel it is my duty.”

“Go ahead, Ser.” Jon urges but his voice is laced with an edge of caution.

Davos looks momentarily overwhelmed and almost half disappointed that the King has given him the floor to speak. “It is true that the North may take issue with you not being a Stark from your father’s side but I fear we’re are overlooking the fact that there is still a Stark in Winterfell.”

“You are suggesting the King unseat himself for Lady Sansa?” Lyanna Mormont asks.

“No, my lady. I am suggesting that the King gives her the seat beside him by way of marriage.” With a breath, he sits, appearing worn out by his own task.

“We’ve had this discussion, Ser Davos.” Jon says through gritted teeth.

“What?” Sansa can’t help but ask. Her response is small and uneducated but is the only one that springs to mind and out of her mouth before she can help it. Her head whips round to see Jon’s reaction so fast that she is certain she has put a crick in her neck.

“She is my sister,” Jon says, his voice dangerously low.

Ser Davos raises up some more courage. “Nay, she is your cousin and people throughout the realm have wed their cousins many times before.” He leans forward. “I accept that there may be some risk to it with you having both being raised by your Lord Father, but I cannot see a cleaner option. If you wed a Southerner, the North may rebel against your rule in fear of you prioritising Southern interests but Lady Sansa is from one of the most respected Northern houses. It would show that whatever your blood may be, your heart and interests are with the North.”

The room remains quiet as the weight of Ser Davos’s proposal sinks in. Jon is steaming angry now, sparing none of them a hard glance as he looks to them to support him. His eyes land on Tormund who simply shrugs and Jon shakes his head bitterly.

Then his gaze finds Sansa and the look he gives her makes her hate Ser Davos with the rage of a thousand and one fires. His lip is curled as he regards her, as though she is the direct source of his revulsion, as though it is her fault that his chosen Hand has gone and ruined everything. It is true that a true bond as brother and sister had been hard to come by; both in their childhood and more so after the revelation of Jon’s true parentage…but they are not _that_ and Ser Davos’ suggestion is a painful reminder of the truth. He is not her brother and she is not his sister and any chance they had to come by such a bond naturally was ruined by Sansa long before they reunited.

Yet, she could cry at how cornered and sad and angry she feels. Why does he blame her? She pushes back her chair and it scrapes across the stone as loud as a bell, and with a cold, pointed stare at her horrible _cousin_ , she says “I would rather _die_ ,” and then leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
